You Don't Know How Lovely You Are
by nothingbutgoneness
Summary: When Kurt and Blaine go clubbing, their night of fun turns into one of fear. WARNING: Contains use of a date rape drug but NO NON-CON. This fic now has a sequel, titled "Oh Let's Go Back to the Start," which you can find on my profile. Title taken from "The Scientist" by Coldplay.


**You Don't Know How Lovely You Are**

The thing about clubbing with Blaine is that the social pressure of finding (or avoiding) someone to hook up with is completely gone. Kurt doesn't have to think about the eyes that follow him across the room, doesn't have to pay attention to the promises of drinks and dances and cabs home, because his hand is in Blaine's, and that's all that matters. They flash their IDs to the bouncer and make a beeline for the dance floor, deciding to get all worked up before going for their first drinks. They move together as though one being, knees and hips and waists and hands falling into alignment seamlessly. The music isn't an actual song, just bass in a rhythm that Kurt can roll his hips to. He pushes his back into Blaine's torso and does a sort of wriggle thing that maybe isn't a real dance move but he can't be bothered with that because he can _feel_ Blaine's very physical response against his ass. He snakes a hand up his own torso, reaches back and cups Blaine's neck. He twists his head to lock their lips in a kiss as Blaine's hands slide easily down Kurt's sides, fingertips stopping just underneath the lip of Kurt's impossibly tight jeans.

"You're not wearing underwear," Blaine breathes into his boyfriend's mouth, eyes wide in awe.

"Wanted to make it easier for you later," Kurt replies with a smirk.

"Or maybe…" Blaine moved his lips to tickle Kurt's ear. "…maybe you were hoping for a blowjob in the bathroom?"

Kurt's hips cant forward of their own accord, and he gasps, "Definitely wouldn't say no to that."

They dance until sweat pours from their skin, and they're so close that they can't tell whose sweat is whose. Blaine licks a stripe up Kurt's neck and murmurs, "I'm thirsty," and Kurt agrees.

"You stay here," Kurt practically shouts over the music. "This is the perfect dancing spot. I'll be right back."

He cuts an easy path through the throng of dancers, men stepping dazed out of his way as he swings his hips toward the bar. He knows they're watching, but more importantly, he knows _Blaine_ is watching, and if Kurt eggs the other guys on to inspire a little jealousy in his boyfriend, and if that jealousy results in Blaine taking him home and claiming him and his body and whispering _mine mine all mine_ in his ear until all Kurt can gasp is his name, well, a boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do.

Kurt smiles at the bartender and asks for a dirty martini for himself and a vodka sour for Blaine. He turns away while the bartender mixes the drinks and tries to find Blaine in the crowd. The task proves impossible; Blaine is many wonderful, amazing things, but tall is not one of them.

When he hears the clink of glasses on the bar behind him, he spends a few more moments watching the dancers before turning and thanking the bartender. He gently eases around the man standing next to him and makes his way back to Blaine. He hands his boyfriend his vodka sour and sips his own martini slowly, lips pursed sexily against the glass. He sees Blaine's eyes following his lips, his tongue, his throat as he swallows and oh yes, tonight will be fantastic.

They finish their drinks rather quickly, eager to get back to dancing. Now thoroughly buzzed, their dancing shifts from suggestively sexy to outright erotic. Kurt hooks a leg around Blaine, crushing their rapidly hardening dicks together. Kurt's head flies backward at the sensation and moans, and Blaine takes the opportunity to suck a deep red mark into the hollow of his throat.

Somehow, Kurt feels as though he's getting drunker as they keep dancing. That doesn't make sense, his brain slowly realizes, but that's what's happening. His moves are becoming less provocative and more erratic as the room spins around him. The music becomes less defined, just one long string of deep notes. Kurt doesn't understand what's going on, why suddenly all he feels is dizzy and sick. He is accidentally shoved to the side by another dancer, and tries to cling to Blaine but misses, and instead hits the floor just as the world goes black.

"Jesus, Kurt!" Blaine yells, dropping to his knees. He starts to pick Kurt up, but the other man isn't responding. He cradles his boyfriend's face, and sees that Kurt's eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow. "Oh god, _help_! Someone help!"

But no one can hear him, because the music is utterly deafening and they're on the floor and there are too many bodies absorbing the sound. Blaine carefully scoops Kurt into his arms and struggles to his feet. He stumbles his way across the dance floor, but once people start to notice him, they part more easily, making way for the man probably carrying his drunken, passed-out boyfriend home.

But Blaine knows Kurt. Sure, he's not exactly a heavyweight, but Kurt can hold more liquor than one dirty martini. Hell, Blaine had seen him down two and a half Long Island iced teas and then kick Rachel's ass at Broadway trivia. He finally gets to the bouncer at the front door and shouts, "Please, please call an ambulance. Something happened."

Thankfully, the bouncer doesn't ask any questions. He walks through a side door and reappears a few minutes later. "They're on their way, kid."

Blaine carries Kurt to a bench outside the club and lays him down, placing Kurt's head in his lap. Panicked, he runs his fingers through Kurt's hair, completely at a loss as to what to do. He takes one of Kurt's hand into his own and squeezes. "Please wake up, babe, _please_."

He doesn't even know what happened. One minute they were dancing, body intertwined as closely as their vertical stances allowed, and the next Kurt was on the floor, not moving, barely breathing. Nothing Blaine did could wake him up. Blaine checks the back of his head for any kind of injury, thinking Kurt may have hit his head the wrong way when he fell, but there was nothing there, not even a bump.

When the ambulance arrives, two paramedics jump out of the back. Blaine waves them over and the taller one asks, "Can you tell us what happened?" Both immediately begin taking Kurt's vitals.

"I have no idea," Blaine answers, voice cracking with worry. "We were dancing and then—and then he fell, and he won't wake up."

"How much had he had to drink, do you know?"

"One martini, that's it."

"Any history of drug abuse?"

"_God_, no, I can barely get him to take an Advil when he has a headache."

"Pulse is weak, blood pressure is low," the shorter paramedic announces. "Let's load him into the van."

"Can I come with you?" Blaine asks hopefully as he reluctantly lets go of Kurt's hand.

"You family?"

"He's the love of my life, please."

The two paramedics exchange a look before the taller one nods. "Alright, but if anyone asks, you caught a cab to the hospital. You gotta ride up front, there's no room for you in the back."

"Thank you so much." Blaine climbs beside the driver, who is even taller than the tall paramedic.

They make it to the nearest hospital in just fifteen minutes, a miracle with the traffic, and Kurt is whisked away from tests by a team of ER doctors. Blaine waits by the entrance, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He's doing all he could not to vomit. He had held Kurt's limp, unmoving body in his arms, and he has _no fucking idea why_. He knows he has to call someone—Burt, Rachel, Santana, Sam—but what would he say? _Hey, Kurt just passed out at the club. Not sure if I'll ever see him smile again because I couldn't keep him safe for three fucking hours._

A doctor approaches Blaine, who leaps to his feet. "How is he?"

"You're the boyfriend of Kurt Hummel, correct?" the doctor asks.

"Yes, please, what happened?"

"We're not sure yet. We took an MRI and a CAT scan, and both came up fine. We're running his blood work now, should know something in an hour or so. You can come see him if you'd like."

Blaine hurries after the doctor to a curtained-off area of the ER. Kurt has just a small cubicle to himself, no really privacy in the bustling emergency room, but at least Blaine can finally sit next to him and lace their fingers together. The only machines Kurt is hooked up to are a heart monitor and an IV drip. Blaine imagines that the doctors are trying to sober him up. Maybe if _Blaine _had been more sober he'd've realized something was wrong with Kurt before he hit the ground. All Blaine can do now his bring Kurt's knuckles to his lips and pray to god neither of them believe in.

The doctor returns an immeasurable time later, and Kurt still hasn't moved. He pulls up a chair on the opposite side of Kurt's bed and looks at Blaine. "We just got his blood work back."

Relief and dread sweeps through Blaine simultaneously. "What is it?"

"His blood showed copious traces of Rohypnol," the doctor answers solemnly. "It was more than likely slipped into his drink at the club."

Blaine had never know horror like he feels now. "You mean…someone _roofied_ my boyfriend?"

"I'm afraid so. The good news is that he will suffer no long-lasting health effects from this. You're lucky you brought him here so early; Rohypnol leaves the system very quickly. We'll have all of his medical information on file should he wish to file a police report."

Blaine takes all of this in before coming to a realization. "Wait…what's the bad news?"

The doctor sighs. "The bad news is that Kurt may suffer some memory loss as a result of the drug. He may not suffer any. The memory loss may be only the few minutes prior to the blackout, it may be several hours. Such things are very unpredictable. Just be prepared for him not to remember much of what happened tonight. I'm not saying it's a certainty by any means, just a possibility."

Blaine nods numbly. Everything leading up to Kurt hitting the floor was absolutely perfect. Both of them looked hot _before_ they left the apartment for the club, and by the time they were out of breath and covered in each other's sweat, they were absolutely _scorching_. Blaine had plans to take Kurt home and fuck him senseless against every wall in the apartment, sucking marks all over his miles of flawless skin as a reminder that the other men in the club may look, but only Blaine gets to touch his firm body, only Blaine gets to hear him moan and beg, only Blaine gets to taste his cock as he comes, only Blaine gets to smell sweat mixed with his cologne and shampoo.

But Kurt may not even remember _going_ to the club with him, and that's when it really hits Blaine how much he depends on this man, this_boy_, if he's being honest, because that's all they are, boys with IDs fumbling through life with nothing but each other to keep them from falling—_and I can't even fucking do that_. Blaine needs Kurt to breathe, to stay alive. Kurt's the only thing that keeps him going, that keeps him from saying _fuck the world_ and retreating back into his shell and waiting for the world to pass him by. Life without Kurt isn't _life_, it's mere existence, and Blaine's _been _there, he's existed before, when Cooper came home to visit with stories of LA and success and big dreams, when his father ignored his presence for three and a half years before he moved out, when he made the biggest mistake of his life and Kurt rightfully kicked him to the curb. He can't go back to that, he just _can't_, and some random pervert in a club almost brought him back there.

He's not sure when he falls asleep, forehead resting in the crevice formed by Kurt's side and the bedsheets, but he wouldn't go home no matter how many times the nurses insisted that Kurt would be out for quite a while longer, and he should go get some proper rest. He sleeps fitfully, jerking awake every twenty minutes or so, only to be greeted by a motionless boyfriend and an increasingly crippling feeling of despair.

Finally, hours past midnight, the hand Blaine has been clutching to like a lifeline since he sat down twitches. Blaine awakens immediately, calling for the doctor. He arrives with a nurse just as Kurt's eyes creak open. "B-Blaine?" he whispers, voice hoarse.

"I'm right here, babe," Blaine murmurs, tears rolling down his face for the first time from relief and fear and stress and god knows what other emotions. He squeezes Kurt's hand, and Kurt's head turns just slightly toward him. "I'm right here, and I'm never leaving."

It's actually a few more hours before Kurt regains consciousness more fully. In the brief minute he was awake the first time, the doctor had him give his name and the date before he drifted away again. The doctor claimed that he seemed to be healing just fine, and that more rest was exactly what he needed.

So when Kurt awakes again, it's nearing nine o'clock in the morning. Blaine still hasn't called anyone; Burt will hop a flight out there immediately, and Blaine isn't sure Kurt will want that kind of attention. Rachel will absolutely lose her shit, and then tell Burt. Santana will start filing a police report at once, regardless of Kurt's wishes. So Blaine sits by himself, growing increasingly stiff-necked in the hard hospital chair, never once moving from his boyfriend's side, eating only when a kind-faced nurse hands him a mini bag of Doritos from the vending machine.

Kurt turns his head, blinking, to see Blaine's chin against his chest, eyes shut in a fitful sleep. Kurt looks down at their joined hands—noting with some confusion the tube protruding from the back of his own—and squeezes as tightly as he could. "Blaine?"

Blaine's eyes snap open, his mouth falling agape. "Kurt." He lets out a choked noise somewhere between a sigh of relief and a laugh. "You're alright."

"I guess…why…?" He finishes his question by glancing around the tiny curtained cubicle in confusion.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" Blaine asks, eyes soft and inquisitive.

Of course Kurt remembers. He remembers getting dressed in the bathroom so Blaine would be surprised by the stellar clubbing outfit he'd picked out. He remembers Blaine's handing squeezing his waist possessively even before they got to the club. He remembers being so entangled in Blaine's body on the dance floor that he couldn't be certain where he ended and Blaine began. He remembers sauntering his way to the bar to get drinks, knowing that a pair of hazel eyes—and maybe a few others—were following his every move.

But after that—nothing.

Kurt's eyebrows furrow once more. "I remember the club, and dancing, and then…no." His chest starts to flutter up and down like a hummingbird's wings. "Why can't I remember? Why is it just black? What happened to me?" Tears escape from his eyes, he can't _help_ it, the idea of not having control for god knows how long is really starting to _freak him out_ and what the fuck _happened_—

"Kurt, sh, breathe, babe." Blaine stands and sits on the edge of Kurt's bed, leaning over so his body mostly covers Kurt's. "Just relax and stay with me."

"I don't under_stand_, Blaine," Kurt whispers, voice cracking in all sorts of places. "I'm really scared."

"Nothing happened to you," Blaine insists in a soothing voice, keeping his eyes locked on Kurt's. "I was there to make sure of that. Someone slipped something into your drink, but they didn't touch you."

The noise Kurt makes is undefinable. Blaine scoops him up into his arm and just holds him as Kurt cries into his shirt. "I remember being scared," Kurt whispers into his shoulder. "I remember not knowing what was going on. But I can't remember it happening."

"It's okay," Blaine murmurs, one hand clutching the back of Kurt's head like a lifeline while the other holds him steady against his body. "The doctor said that a side effect of Rohypnol is memory loss. It seems like you only lost the few minutes before you passed out, and the doctor said it may not last forever."

Kurt sits back a bit, and Blaine rearranges the pillows so he can support himself before taking one of Kurt's hands in both of his. "Why would someone do this? I didn't—I was with _you_. I wasn't looking for someone to go home with, I wanted to go home with _you_."

"I know, babe, I know. The dick who roofied you probably thought you were by yourself and was hoping to…it doesn't matter. It didn't happen. I will never let that happen to you."

"I love you," Kurt breathes, swallowing down another wave of tears.

"God, you have no idea how scared I was that I was never going to hear you say that again."

Blaine's just about to call for the doctor when Kurt asks, "What about my dad? Did you tell him?"

Blaine frowns guiltily. "I didn't. Would you have wanted me to? I just—his heart isn't the best, and I didn't want him to worry when I didn't really have anything to tell him, and I didn't want him flying out here when you might want some privacy when you woke up and—"

Kurt leans forward carefully and kisses his boyfriend, and _god_ Blaine would never have survived without that boy, not even for a week. If Kurt hadn't woken up, if that anonymous douche had slipped something more dangerous into Kurt's drink, if Blaine had left him alone for the wrong minute Kurt could be gone and Blaine right with him. It's stupid and irrational and he knows it, he knew it when he read _Romeo & Juliet_ in the ninth grade and rolled his eyes at the stupid fucking teenagers who knew he each other for all of three days before deciding to kill themselves for one another, but fuck if Blaine doesn't get it now, doesn't get how literally his life depends on Kurt's. When Kurt's lips leave his, he makes a vow to himself never to let a kiss be their last.

He doesn't even take his eyes off of Kurt to call for the doctor, who arrives within a minute to begin checking Kurt over. He asks Kurt what he remembers, and Kurt tells him what he told Blaine, only this time with less panic because Blaine's here, holding his hand, firm body against his own, keeping him grounded.

Kurt decides not to press charges, which Blaine understands even though every cell in his body is itching to find the bastard and slowly but surely skin him alive—there were at least two hundred and fifty people in that tiny, tiny club last night; there's no way they'd be able to find him again. And since he didn't even touch Kurt, there probably won't be much they could charge him with. And Blaine can see the fatigue in Kurt's eyes, can see that he just wants this whole ordeal to be _done_, wants to go home and crawl into bed and ignore the world for a while.

And Blaine can do that.

* * *

So I wrote this a month or so ago and then totally forgot about it. So here you go!

**PERSONAL TUMBLR: **nothingbutgoneness**  
****FANFICTION TUMBLR: **kqwriting**  
****FANFICTION BANK TUMBLR: **klaineficneeds


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